


Ineffable

by scrubbadub



Category: South Park
Genre: Canon Compliant, M/M, and pip does not, and thats the tea, anyways pocket loves pip, because canonically he just do that, because thats kinda fucked up ykno, but he doesnt die from like, but they spelled it philip and phillip, i dont know WHICH tag it is, its implied at the end that yknow, pocket dies, so i take no chances, the same thing he died in canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-29
Updated: 2019-11-29
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:27:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21602203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrubbadub/pseuds/scrubbadub
Summary: Ineffable; adj, too great or extreme to be expressed or described in words.
Relationships: Philip Pirrip/Herbert Pocket, one-sided pipbert
Comments: 1
Kudos: 15





	Ineffable

There is nothing but the stale smell of hospital disinfectant, sweat, and chemicals when Pip enters the hospital room.

Oh, he kept in contact with his friends in Britain, of course, but a gentleman must be ready to move whenever- and his move to America was abrupt and sudden, he must say. To enjoy the comfort of being able to call both Estella and Pocket when he could, though, that is something that he could never be able to give back; whatever force in the universe that let him stay in contact, he’s eternally grateful, and lord, he hopes it knows.

So when he got a call from Estella telling him he was being sent back, that Pocket was in an ill way, well…

He worried.

He’s quite good at worrying. She didn’t say much, she never does, always curt and more than her fair share of rude, but as time went on and the miles grew further, her words held less bite. He knows she has a troublesome time expressing genuine happiness, sometimes, or emotions, really, beyond malice, and he knows she’s trying. That’s all he could ask for.

Such silly words are said, sometimes, too, he can look past it for now.

He’d been stopped, before he’d entered the hospital room, by Estella specifically. She’d put a hand on his shoulder, turned towards the door, and he’s seen her look confused, before, but never truly sad. He thinks he saw her, then, and he didn’t like it.

Ever the optimist, she’d said. He still believes he has time. The bedridden, gangrenous excuse for an elephant’s ass. She sure… knows how to string words together to mean things. She’d also said to take care with him. That he was fragile.

He’s forlorn to see she’s right.

The room is surprisingly full of objects, now that he takes the chance to look around. He forces himself to, to prolong having to face Pocket, though he’s ashamed to admit it to himself. There are little get well cards strewn across the desk by the side of the bed, and a vase of flowers rests atop it.

Oh, well… he thinks that answers his long standing question of whether or not Pocket actually had family that cared. They do, and he’s glad for him, though he’s terribly sad that they’ve got to deal with such a terrible thing as this.

There’s nothing left but Pocket, now, so he looks, and he thinks his heart shatters, just a little.

There he waits, frail, almost sunken into the bed, enveloped by the covers- and he almost thought he’d been gone already, until he’d noticed the rise and fall of his chest underneath the linen and cloth. He takes a seat next to him.

Estella never told him what he was sick with. Just that he wasn’t long for this world. 

His movement must have roused Pocket, because he stirs, hesitant and sluggish, and opens his eyes where he rests. There’s a moment of tension that Pip is loathe to break, to let things rest as they are; things never quite go as easily as that, though, because he’s noticed soon enough, and he watches Pocket light up where he lays.

“Oh, _Pip_ , you made it?”

Of course he made it. He wouldn’t miss seeing his friend for the world. Nevermind that he had to be flown all the way out here to see him, nevermind that his foster parents were quite sore about having to let him go out of country, nevermind that this is too painful a situation to truly grasp- he wouldn’t miss it. “Of course, Herbert, old friend. I wouldn’t dare leave without saying hello.”

“Oh, how wonderful, truly, I… I’d thought you wouldn’t show. Estella was so _certain_ , you know, so… _pessimistic_ , quite standard, really…” He has to leverage himself up so his back is leaning on the pillows in his bed, and he can see the effort it takes, the strain of being awake and alert taking its toll; he feels quite terrible, now, about rousing him.

“How are you doing, though? It’s truly terrible, the state you’ve ended up in, I’m quite worried- it was sudden, right?”

There’s a flash of emotion on Pocket’s face, something dark, something sad and bitter and turbulent, but it passes so fast he almost misses it. He sees it, though. He shouldn’t repress those kinds of things. Unfortunate. “... well, the doctors aren’t happy. I suppose they think- they think I’ve not long. Poppycock, I say! I feel right as rain!”

“You don’t have to lie to me, Herbert.” He knows better than to believe a dying man’s hopeful wishes. It’d be lying to himself, too, and he’d rather not get his own hopes up that high. Pocket falters, then chuckles, a little broken at the end of it, and slouches just a little. 

“... They say my body’s. Failing. I’ve been sleeping a lot.”

He nods along. Estella told him that much. “Do they know what it is?”

“No, it’s… quite surprising, they can’t figure it out, the, the cause, so I’ve just been… _sitting_ here, wasting away. I’m doing better today, though- that counts for something, right?”

He wants to think so. Pip truly, really does- but he can see the bags under Pocket’s eyes, the grey pallor to his skeen, the fevered flush to his cheeks, and he can see how hard it is for him to stay awake. He knows he so desperately wants to think that he can pull through this, but Pocket was never _strong_ so much as he was _stubborn_ , and while the two go hand in hand, they are not the same.

You can only go so far as your body is willing to, and human spirit can only get you so far. Inhuman spirit, too, but that’s an entirely _different_ matter.

“Of course it does, old pal, but really, you shouldn’t push yourself so hard for me--”

“Oh, I don’t mind. I’d do lots of things for you.” That’s sweet. 

“Ah, well- splendid news, but my point still stands. You’ve energy to conserve, you shouldn’t be wasting it on me.” Finally, he takes a seat next to Pocket, settling down into the chair gingerly, and Pocket surprises him; he grabs his hand in his and holds it for a moment, caught in thought, then speaks.

“I do mean it, you know. I’d take a bullet for you, Phillip.” 

He’s taken a little aback. “I- now, don’t go saying things like that. Gunshot wounds are quite serious matters.”

“I wouldn’t say it if it weren’t an absolute, my friend.” He moves to respond, but Pocket’s grip on his hand tightens, and he pauses. “I’d like a chance to speak, if you’d let me.”

“... of course. Carry on, then.” He doesn’t know when Pocket will wake next, so he might as well let him have this one.

“You… you have been gone for quite some time, now, and I have had a lot of time to think. I’ve been doing many things, Phillip, kept Estella company when she wants for none, given to the needy, done my part; I’ve lived a full life for how long I’ve lived, so far, how short a time it’s been, and-” He takes a breath. It looks like it’s difficult, but he makes no note of it beyond the pauses, the shortness. 

Silently, he prays to give him more time, though he knows the effort is lost.

“Not a moment has gone by in which I haven’t thought about you. I- I see something so trivial on the side of the road, I think oh, well, Phillip would like that, wouldn’t he? Or- this commercial I saw on the telly the other morn’. I thought to myself, how funny, Phillip would hate this, he’d scrunch up his face and he’d tell me it was so silly and ask if there was anything else that we could watch! I- truly, I think… I think you’ll be the one I miss the most when I go.”

He stops. “What?”

“I… I care about Estella, I really do, but she’s so crass always, and grating, and… well, she’s a good relative-”

“Wait! Wait, you and Estella are _related?_ ” That is _news_ to him on a very real and startling level.

“Oh! Yes, we’re distantly related. It was quite the shock to find out when we were young, she, she was against the whole thing, but my family reached out to her mother and, and they sent me to be her friend, for she needed one sorely, they assumed, and I’ve been here ever since! I visit my family on the holidays and- and on the summer, of course.” A nod. He follows along as best he can.

“I thought you two were past lovers!”

“Certaintly not in this part of England, Phillip, how amusing a thought, though. No, my…” He watches Pocket try and catch his breath, ruminate for a moment, then continue on, much softer. “My heart is set on someone else entirely.”

He wonders who Pocket has his heart set on. What kind of woman would he romance, he thinks, what kind of lucky lady would be blessed enough to have a kind hand like his in a relationship? Would he shower her in gifts? Would it even _be_ a her?

Well, now that he’s giving it thought, Pocket’s never really been the womanizing type, has he? More thoughtful than his fellow mates, more considerate, always a gentleman- he could very well be rooting for the other team, so to speak.

Not his business to pry, unfortunately.

“Who would that be? You don’t have to tell me, of course, I won’t pry, I’m simply curious.”

There’s a good moment where they both fall silent, Pocket sliding back down into the bed from his vaguely upright position, still clinging to Pip’s hand, and he chews on the inside of his cheek in anxious quiet, thinking. “... oh, lord. I’ve overstepped, haven’t I?”

“Of course not.” Pocket’s softer spoken than when he’d entered the room initially. He worries. “I’m merely… thinking. Tired, as well.”

“Well, I shouldn’t distract you from your rest, then--”

“You.” 

Hm? That was quite the interruption, he thinks, though he knows no context for it. “I’m afraid I don’t quite understand what you meant by that.”

“It’s always been you, Phillip.” There’s a moment where he has to take a mental step back, observe from the outside view, and he gets it. He finally gets it. “Every… stolen glance, every tender moment shared behind the comfort of marble walls and hedged gardens, every _single breath_ shared with you, I wouldn’t give that for even the world. You are my sun, Phillip. You make my world brighter than any imaginable light.”

“Herbert…” He doesn’t _reciprocate_ , is the terrible thing. He feared for a small moment, much earlier than this moment, had his inklings, but banished them from his mind. He pretended not to notice the dear ways his friend glanced at him in private, the way he beamed at every smile, every compliment and every passing touch; he doesn’t feel the same, merely appreciative of their friendship, and it pains him.

He can’t tell him that. He’s dying. It’d be cruel.

How cruel would it be to let him think that he feels the same while on his deathbed? That, he does not know, nor lets himself fathom.

“I know, I know. How amusing, right? To love a man whose love belongs to someone else.” He pauses. “I’ve seen the way you look at her. Estella. … I know your heart belongs to her.”

“It really doesn’t, Herbert, not in the way you might think.” Oh, she’s his friend, but he has standards, for one, doesn’t quite like to be treated like shit, and knows his worth. She does not. Not yet. His heart also belongs to someone just a little similar but very opposite. Or, at least, partial to him, so to speak.

“Then to someone else. You don’t have to pretend for me. I just… wanted to finally speak my mind on the matter, I suppose.”

Pip… thinks that Pocket knows he won’t make it. He’s an optimist, stubborn, so joyful always, and even in the face of terrible hardship, he smiles still, but he knows better than to see the sadness etched into his face and think it doesn’t come from the bitter resignation of one’s death. You can be resigned and still have false hope, then?

How ineffable a realization.

“Then let me wait here with you, then. I won’t lie to you, but I say no lie when I tell you that you mean a lot to me, Herbert. Just… what kind of tale would you like me to tell you?” It’s the least he can do for him.

“... tell me about America?” He squeezes Pocket’s hand, and he squeezes weakly back.

“Of course. Always.”

He brushes a thumb across Pocket’s palm and takes a deep breath, watches him settle back down into the covers carefully, so gingerly it feels like he’s trying not to hurt himself, and starts talking.

“I think you’d like it in America, Herbert, though I don’t think they’d like you. The children are so cruel, there, but there’s so much going on always! Not a day goes by in which I’m neither entertained nor kept busy with whatever new adventure is going on- though I cannot say that I miss the constant bullying. Why, I do say I have a story about a silly little dodgeball team adventure we went on, just a few months ago, it was quite the debacle…”

There are little noises punctuated between his words, a chuckle here, a laugh there, and he keeps talking until they grow further apart, further still, until there’s a stretch of time where he talks and nothing is said in response. He pauses.

“... Herbert? Are you awake, old friend?”

There’s nothing but silence. He sees him, there, can’t notice the rise and fall of his chest underneath the blankets, and prays that it’s faint enough that it simply isn’t enough to move the blankets. He can feel a pulse when he searches for it, so that worry settles back down in his chest, but he still aches, just a little, deep down in his chest.

“... right-o.” Very carefully, he sets Pocket’s hand back down on the blanket and stands from the bed, brushing some of his hair out of his face. He tucks him in, grabs a stuffed teddy from the dresser it’s placed on, and sets it next to him. “I’ll see you again, I do think. You’d best wake up. We’ve a talk to have.”

Out the door he walks.


End file.
